


Reviving Icarus

by Phoenixations (Mysteryreview)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 10:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysteryreview/pseuds/Phoenixations
Summary: Loving Aziraphale was like basking in the creation of sunlight. How it felt to revel in the making of the stars and planets. Right and alive and part of something bigger than he could begin to imagine.





	Reviving Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> This was a labor of love and took me much longer to write than I intended. Good Omens has had me in a death grip for a good month or so now and I really needed to get this out of my head and written down. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy~

It was the worst day to ever exist.

So far.

Rain had begun to pour down. With a flaming sword in hand, the only two humans on earth fled for their newly invented lives from a forbidden paradise.

“So… What now?” Crawly sighed, crossing his arms pensively.

The angel beside him must not have expected the conversation to go further. The wing above Crawly shifted, droplets of rain sneaking through the gaps and dampening the demon's black clothing.

“Well…” Aziraphel trailed off, just as helpfully. His throat was unusually dry considering the weather. “I suppose we’ll have quite a bit of explaining to do.”

“Wh- _explaining?_ ” The demon cocked his head.

With a conscious effort, Aziraphel straightened and folded his hands behind his back.

“Yes… _yes_. Of course I’ll have to discuss this with my colleagues. Uriel, Michael, certainly-”

“Oh, and then what?” Crawly snarked. “They’ll let you off with a slap on the hand and a pat on the head for effort?”

Aziraphale faltered, looking away from the demon's sharp amber eyes and instead to the two bodies that had nearly disappeared off the horizon.

“Listen, Angel,” Crawly faced him now. “We both know what happens when a holy being decides to get their hands dirty.” He gestured to himself, his ashen, somewhat shabbier feathers billowing with his arms. But it wasn’t with shame. More a state of fact. They had only just met, but Crawly didn't look the type to think lowly of himself.

Aziraphale quite liked the iridescent, oil-slick color of black feathers, but that was beside the point.

Instead of twisting with disgust as the demon expected, the angel brought a thoughtful hand to his chin.

“What about you?” Aziraphale questioned.

Crawly lowered his arms.

“What _about_ me?” he echoed with frustration.

“Like you said, if this was all wrong, wrong for _both_ of us-”

“Get on with it.”

“Aren’t you worried? Forgive me for bringing it up, but... there’s nowhere further for you to fall.”

Crawly snorted. A demon forgiving an angel. Now that was a thought.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

The patter of the rain was steady, each droplet gaining weight. Or perhaps Aziraphale’s wing was merely straining above the demon's head from holding it there so long.

Signs of a bigger storm steadily drifted overhead, blotting out the sun. In the last moment, beams of gold sunlight streamed between the linings of the clouds, illuminating the humans like a harbinger. If it weren't for the gloom of uncertainty, it would be beautiful.

The guardian and the demon stood beside one another, an unspoken thought vibrating between them and the rest of the universe.

"I suppose… There's no real need to go to the others." Aziraphale reasoned, bringing his hands to his belly and knitting his fingers loosely. Crowley was trying very blatantly to hide his amusement. "Be bad for both of us, in the end. I tell Gabriel, he would send regards to Beezelbub and all… You know how those squabbles go. A lot of pointing fingers. We’re better off saving everyone the trouble."

Crawly looked to him again, this time a crooked smile curling up the corner of his mouth. The blunted fangs of a serpent poked out.

"Aw, Angel, I'm glad we see eye to eye on this."

"Yes, we can go on like nothing out of the ordinary happened. We'll never have to see each other again."

Crawly frowned.

"Now, I think you’re getting ahead of yourself. It's a small world."

"Well, we shouldn't see each other again." He amended.

"And if we do?"

"Business as usual."

The demon arched a brow. "Business."

"Yes."

"Hell of a business, this." Crawly gestured to the ensuing weather. A bit of rubble crumbled away from the broken wall of their Eden.

"An ineffable one." Aziraphale shrugged, simply.

Crawly grunted, unconvinced.

\---

Crowley never much liked that word: _Ineffable_.

Too many variables. Too little explanation. It was enough to drive him mad. In a cruel twist of irony, the only being in the universe that brought it up happened to be the only one he could tolerate.

Their friendship, too, was admittedly ineffable. What compelled the demon to come to the Angel's side like a hellhound to a bone, he could never place. All it took was for the other to so much as whimper at an injured kitten or a soddened book binding.

Their little meetups, the ones between temptings and blessings, had nothing to do with their accord. That was so long ago, millennia, and well past the point of blackmail or bribery. Deep down Crowley knew such foul play had always been beyond an angel's line of practice, but it was fun to imagine.

No, there was really no reason for him to secretly seek out a familiar face in a revolutionary mob in France, or listen for the echo of a particular voice within a suit of armor.

And yet he had. It became a game of sorts. He began to look forward to it.

The more time he spent among humans, twisting and turning their humanity against them, the more he understood them, and, _horrifyingly_ , the more he could feel that humanity creeping its way under his own skin.

And the angel. With each time the angel crossed his path, he could tell living among humans had done the same to Aziraphale. It was a relief of sorts, to think that this collaboration could have happened to any demon or angel in their positions.

Usually his little game of Spot the Divine Arsehole would begin when Crowley was bored or feeling particularly chatty. Even more often, it would end with dinner and a full night of drinking.

This night was no exception. There had been a lot to catch up on.

** Soho-1941 **

"You depress me, dear." Aziraphale pouted, tipping his glass dangerously close to spilling. "My favorite dance hall… Poof! Gone!"

Crowley poured another glass of wine he'd salvaged from a recently closed dance hall. Rather, recently encrumbled dance hall. Dover had been his go-to for entertainment in these fraught times of nightly bomb sirens. Drawn by the unmistakable feeling of love, Aziraphale had made it a habit to go and offer his positive encouragements to the miraculously happy folk who would gather there to dance and sing.

In all his ambitious undercover work, he’d completely forgotten. Now all that was left was brick and mortar.

"I told you that wasn't my fault!" Crowley slapped the table of Aziraphale's (fairly) new, though decently filled bookshop. "S'those… _Pigs_. S'who it is. Blowin’ up the whole bloody city! Think they own the place. Think they own alcohol. I own the alcohol now. Me!"

"I wanted to dance." Aziraphale continued to frown down at his glass, not caring if it dribbled to the floor.

"Dancing, and twirling and alcohol," Crowley agreed. "You… You probably dance like… Like n' angel." He concluded.

"I'd been practicing." Aziraphale agreed sadly.

"Shit. And you'd been practicing." The demon lamented, sitting heavily in his chair, legs splayed in different directions. His head hung back uncomfortably to stare unfocused at the ceiling.

A strange, unfiltered thought rose out of Crowley's throat.

"With who?"

"What?" Aziraphale blinked blearily.

"Practicing!" He managed. "With _whom?_ "

"With people." Aziraphale muttered in response. "Obviously."

"Huh." Crowley swirled the wine in his glass, the hypnotic sight of it strangely sobering. Or maybe he'd simply been staring at it for so long that the drink had left his system. "You spend an awful lot of time with people." He prodded with undue suspicion.

"It wasn’t like there was anyone else around.” He muttered pointedly. Crowley’s mouth pinched thin. “And that's part of the job, you remember. Living amongst people." Aziraphale defended, sounding much more sober himself, but not quite there yet.

"I don't spend time with them. I _fuck with them_. You're going to get attached." The demon warned, finishing off the last of his drink.

“I’m getting attached?” he gaped. “You- Who was the one going on about an arrangement! Think you’re so charming with that… erm… face and... that thing you wear.” He waved a hand loosely at Crowley’s nose.

“...Glasses?”

“Yes! Exactly right! Can’t even see your eyes half the time. It feels like I’m talking to a wall. A rude, charismatic wall that… waltzes into a burning church after a hundred bloody years. I could go mad.”

Crowley shook his head, slowly, because an ache was setting in. Crowley was too half-cut to take all this while inebriated, but at the moment it was the only reason he could have this conversation at all.

Aziraphale sat still for a moment, chewing over a thought. Quietly, he set his unfinished wine back on the table and folded his hands in his lap.

“Do you ever feel that this was all meant to happen? Us?"

Crowley's brow furrowed. An odd warmth swelled in his chest. Alcohol again. It must have been.

“You- You think?”

"Of course. The Plan. Butting heads in a divine battle of strategy and such." Aziraphale clarified, and pumped his fist gently into the air with gusto. "And this. Our silly arguments about earthly things and that holy water nonsense. Perhaps it’s designed for us to be this way. We make a perfect pair, don’t we?”

_The ineffable plan._

For a sweet, blessed moment in time the demon had allowed himself not to think of it. How everything they'd done until this point had been contrived somehow by this grand thing his friend clung to. By something, for all they knew, didn't even exist.

Aziraphale hadn’t changed much at all since they’d last met. In fact, the angel still hadn’t changed his mind about helping him.

All the warmth that had welled inside Crowley drained.

"That's right. Can't have me around without a plan." He blanched and cocked his head to the side to stare at the piles of war-scavenged books on Aziraphale's floor. He let out a long held breath and sunk farther into the chair.

The conversation died with a decisive thud. Nothing but the ticking of a clock filled the silence. When Crowley began to push himself up from the creaky antique chair, it was the loudest sound of the night.

"Well, angel," Crowley stood, albeit with a slant, "better not stick around and throw off your big 'plans' any longer. Got some evildoing to get back to. S' why I'm here, y'know."

"Crowley-" Aziraphale straightened, prepared to stop him, but there was no point. Crowley was already halfway out the door.

"Crowley," he repeated more firmly, "you're still drunk. At least miracle it away before you drive off-"

The demon stopped sharply in the doorway. He stomped the heel of his shoe against the floorboards, snuffing out that pesky voice in the back of his head like a lit cigarette.

"Oh don't worry about me, angel." His words were flat and cold like the world outside.

"I'm not. I'm worried for the little old ladies crossing the street. Especially Mrs. Kegley down the road. Wonderful woman, that one. Makes a heavenly biscuit-"

Crowley ground his teeth.

"Right. Sure. I’ll uhm… see you."

With a solid kick, the door shut hard behind him, snapping Aziraphale out of his thoughts.

He heard the front door chime from beyond the back room, the distinctive rumble of the Bentley-

And all was quiet.

Which was fine.

He liked the quiet.

"..."

Aziraphale's eyes settled on the ruby red wine and the empty glass across from it. He raised a hand to his, thinking it a waste not to finish, but the taste had already begun to sour in his mouth, along with his appetite.

The glass sung perfectly under the pad of his finger as he dragged it slowly along the rim.

Somewhere in the room, the clock ticked steadily as usual.

They never spoke of that particular night again.

\----

** 1990 **

"Don't just tear it open," Aziraphale sighed, disappointed. All that careful wrapping gone unnoticed.

"It's a gift, isn't it?" Crowley asked flatly, though he did pause in his beastly ripping of the paper. "The gift is _inside_ the wrapping?"

"Yes, but you didn't even appreciate the bow. It's a Tiffany knot. Thought I'd take a crack at it." He smiled from ear to ear in that sunshine way of his.

Crowley tipped the small package, his eyes tracing the way the ribbon hugged every side before being neatly tied at the center.

"It is very impressive." He admitted to indulge him.

With the angel appearing satisfied, Crowley continued.

Pearl-white paper littered the floor of the bookshop. The periwinkle bow, Crowley managed to wriggle away intact without undoing.

Inside was a small black box with a cassette visible through a clear window of plastic.

"For your new home." The angel said warmly. His foot shifted, and he scrunched his nose at the feeling of paper scraps on his shoes. A quick miracle cleared away the mess.

It was a voicemail recorder.

A bit of an outdated one, at that.

"...Not that I don't uhm… _appreciate_ the thought," Crowley started carefully, seeing the other's smile waver at his lack of reaction, "but we can see each other any time-"

"Well, yes, but now we won't have to go chasing each other's coattails to deliver a message. Look, plug it in and press that button there." Aziraphale tapped one of the black switches lightly with a finger.

Crowley clicked it the rest of the way down, and a single message began to rattle through the speaker.

_'Is it…? Ah! Yes, it's working. Let's see…'_

There was the sound of a clearing throat.

_'Crowley! I've found my way inside this little box!'_

A pause.

_'...Oh, I'm just kidding. I don't think that's possible, even for us. Or is it?'_

Crowley glanced up teasingly at Aziraphale, who was looking somewhat red-faced from nose to ears.

_'I hope you will put this to good use. Now, how do I turn this contraption o-'_

Aziraphale rubbed his temple in small circles.

"I forgot, I was planning to have you open it later," he explained.

"Glad I didn't." The demon gave a toothy grin.

"I'm erasing it." He reached for the recorder, and was promptly denied.

"No, I think I'll hold on to it. Proof of my perfect little angel being a loon? How could I let that go?"

"Really, Crowley. You're not as devilish as you think you are. But you are annoying."

"You wound me." Crowley clutched a bit of fabric over his chest.

"I would never." He pouted, offended, which garnered a chuckle from the demon.

He knew what came next, and Aziraphale did not disappoint. The angel conceded defeat, stepping back and adjusting his coat in a huff. This would be when he tried to look his saddest; small glances directed at Crowley, little sighs of dismay- All for show, really.

They worked every time.

With a roll of his eyes, he handed Aziraphale the recorder.

True to form, a grin spread across the angel's face, just a bit too quickly.

"Thank you."

The box was set on a table, where Aziraphale closed his eyes in concentration and waved a miraculous hand above. The tape inside immediately reversed, rewritten.

"Satisfied?" Crowley chided.

"Yes. Quite."

"I'll set it up later."

"You'll use it?" Aziraphale sounded almost surprised. The pouting may have been put on, but the angel’s delight was always genuine.

"Sure. Why not." He shrugged, taking back the device. "Anything to make it harder for those bastards in the attic and the basement to spoil our fun. Couldn't ask for a better gift."

The afternoon continued with their usual routine. Idle chatter over tea about the little miracles and inconveniences they'd accomplished that day.

Later that night, as he set the machine on his desk, Crowley noticed the tape had not been completely rewound. A quick fiddle with a silver dial, and the press of a button revealed a new message.

_'For my dear, invaluable friend. May your new home be filled with love and bring you peace of mind.'_

Crowley could swear he felt an angelic presence instantly spread throughout the room. The demon clicked his tongue. It would take all day to damn the place again.

_'And please, do be kind to the plants now and then! They are doing their very best.'_

The button on the voicemail box snapped back into place, the message done.

“Not a chance.” The demon answered the machine.

Crowley wasn’t sure how to feel about this gift. It was as if Aziraphale was actually there, nagging him in his own little piece of hell. The only thing worse, he could imagine, would be if the angel packed his metaphorical bags and moved in with him.

Well, aside from ruining his greenhouse and tainting his quarters with nightly prayers, it wouldn’t be much different from their usual life.

It would be a lot less quiet, that was certain. Cluttered, with books and papers and other material things they had no use for. His entire aesthetic, ruined.

"..."

Crowley would spend the rest of the night thinking up scenarios of how terrible such an arrangement would be.

And he would listen to the message exactly two and a half more times before deleting it.

\----

They were never sure why the Ritz had become their go-to for celebration. But this was a big one. The biggest ever, in fact.

"You're killing me, angel. Just open it."

Aziraphale's hands fiddled with the tape of the rather flat, rectangular package in his lap, struggling to peel it away without tearing the tacky, flame-patterned wrapping paper.

"I am opening it."

"What do you think is inside? Robin eggs?"

Aziraphale hesitated. "Is it? Oh. Don't tease me that way, I don’t want to break anything-"

“You aren’t going to break it,” Crowley conceded, and Aziraphale felt much better about (gently) peeling up the corner to slide out the white box underneath.

Aziraphale let out a small gasp.

It was a new coat, not too dissimilar from the one he already wore, because Crowley never had much luck getting the angel to adjust to the latest fashions.

Aziraphale carefully unfolded it, holding it up to its full length. Long, taupe, finely sewn, it was only the best quality.

"Why, it's spectacular! What did you get it for? What's the occasion?"

"Celebrating the anniversary of our greatest screw up."

“Ah. But I thought we already celebrated ‘The Apocalypse that Wasn’t?’”

“Not about that one, granted I’m rather proud of it.”

Aziraphale's eyes slowly widened in recognition. And then a smile.

"The Antichrist didn't qualify? I'm shocked." He shrugged off his perfectly good coat in favor of the new one.

"Our very _first_ screw up. The one that started it all. Now I’d reckon that’s cause for celebrating."

"When you put it that way…"

Aziraphale had a tendency to linger on the little details. In this instance, his beloved coat had gotten filthy in the whole ‘fighting the devil and also every demon and angel that despised their cooperation’ debacle. He could miracle it away, as always, but Crowley knew better. It was more for Aziraphale. It was the memories attached to the coat that needed to be put to rest, not just the fabric itself. A new chapter. A fresh start.

A small, gold embroidery of a snake was emblazoned on the collar. It twisted and turned in the vague shape of a star. Aziraphale raised a brow. An interesting choice of symbol.

"Was this here when you found it?"

He said 'found' because Crowley had a tendency to 'happen upon' the things he wanted instead of buying them. Aziraphale learned not to expect details.

"I may have added a little flair. Think you can handle it? Not too flashy for you?"

The angel dragged a finger thoughtfully over the thread. Crowley watched the slow, gentle movement from behind his glasses.

"Misunderstood creatures, snakes. Heaven was never fond of them, but I think they are fine animals. All they want is comfort and a little warmth."

That was approval, then? Crowley chuckled. Aziraphale could never give a simple answer. Crowley's foot tapped restlessly under the table.

Aziraphale folded his old coat and retired it into the empty present box.

"And… I think their eyes are quite beautiful." The angel added.

"Their...You do?" He tried his best to sound disinterested. That facade was short lived when he felt something settle atop his hand.

"I always have. I never mentioned?"

"No," Crowley gnawed at his lower lip. "No, that never came up."

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on the pitch black of Crowley’s glasses. After a while, he let out a short breath.

Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze, then went back to arranging his fork and knife politely in the center of his empty plate.

Piano song played soothingly in the dining room, chatter from happy patrons, its accompaniment. A bird sang just outside the window, almost in tune with the melody. Sunlight drifted in through elegant curtains, highlighting Aziraphale’s own heavenly blue eyes. Contented, he breathed in and out to savor the energy surrounding him.

Aziraphale could sense it every time they came here. This restaurant was loved.

But there was something else. It wasn't the usual aura that filled a beloved place. It wasn't quite hostile either.

"Fascinating," Aziraphale turned in his seat, glancing carefully over his shoulders. "It feels as though this place is under a watchful eye. Do you feel it Crowley?"

Crowley's leg stilled. He flashed his usual toothy smile.

"You're imagining things again."

“Hm,” Aziraphale righted himself. “Still jumpy about the whole end of the world business, I suppose. Not to he morbid, but I still can't believe we got away unscathed.”

It was hard not to think, what with Heaven and Hell, that there were absolutely no eyes on them. It was unsettling, but with time the unsteady sensation would surely fade.

Later, after they parted ways, Aziraphale felt the very same aura down the block, around the corner, all the way to the door of his own home. This continued for days and weeks. It was a strange sensation that had him looking about every time he left for an errand until he was back inside the book shop, changed and ready to rest for the night.

Nothing had been there, and yet the feeling surrounded him every day like a blanket.

A blanket. Or a-

He stopped short of reorganizing the books on their shelves.

Without thinking, he ran his fingers over the collar of his jacket once more.

And then he began walking from end to end of his collection, picking up and replacing books from his shelves. His finger dragged across pages and lines and words, scanning them quickly until he found a particular passage and a particular illustration.

"Oh…" was all he managed.

He contemplated picking up the phone in that moment, then he did, and began dialing the line he knew by heart.

He couldn't bring himself to turn the final number.

\---

"This one is very nice." Aziraphale tilted his head. "It looks familiar. What was it called?"

"The Mona Lisa. The drawing, not the painting. This one's better."

Crowley pointed specifically toward the smile, much more prominent than the final pensive version.

Aziraphale always admired Crowley's taste in art. Music was another matter, but the sculptures and wall pieces hanging about the flat gave the sheek room a sense of appreciation for humanity. He had gotten more, since the end of the world. Art was one of the few earthly things Crowley enjoyed collecting.

Aziraphale thought, without the art and apart from a particular reading chair and table, it would feel rather lonely here. Empty and cold. Then again this newly popular 'modern' style wasn't his taste at all.

"Imagine, you, a curator of mankind's most inspired creations…" he reveled. "At the rate you’re going you could open a museum."

"That's the genius of it, angel. If I never let them see the light of day, they'll become 'lost to time.' No one can enjoy them but us."

"It's probably for the best. You will take good care of them.” Crowley made a face at the compliment, but didn’t deny it. “Do you remember the great Library of Alexandria? Was that one of ours or yours?"

Crowley’s shoulders lifted and fell.

"Who knows at this point, yeah? Both sides wanted what was in there to disappear."

"Did we?" Aziraphale tucked his arms behind his back. "I don't recall."

"Once word caught on there might be prophecies of the end days floating about on the shelves they went crazy trying to find them. Humans were getting too smart for their own good."

"What is that Greek story… ‘Icarus and the Sun?’"

Crowley snorted.

"Funny. Seems their answer is always, 'Set the whole bloody library on fire.'"

Aziraphale nodded. A knowing chuckle of his own bubbled up. Angels and demons weren’t always so different.

"Can't imagine I would have let that go." Aziraphale walked to the next piece. "If I had known what would happen, I mean. There would have been a strongly worded letter, I assure you. All that knowledge lost to time," he scoffed. "Accident my foot. It's a tragedy, really."

Maybe for the humans, Crowley thought, who had meticulously compiled the library and would never live long enough to see that information reborn. For an angel and a demon with eternal life it was a trifle matter. They were bound to come across whatever knowledge had been locked away before the burning.

However, Aziraphale had always gone on about his proud first editions. That must have been the real tragedy for him to imagine.

“Wait. I remember this one,” Aziraphale pointed to a statue farther right, a large stone bird with wings outspread. His eyes widened, like seeing an old friend. ”Germany. That was the night you-” he ran his palm lightly over one of the wings. “Well, the night you saved me from an untimely discorporation.”

“Some of my best work, don’t you think?”

"Without a doubt."

Aziraphale backed away from the memento and folded his hands behind his back. He stayed at this statue longer than any other piece. Then, a curious look crossed his face.

“You know what this gallery needs…” Aziraphale raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Light piano music began to play, much like one would expect while perusing a library. Chopin, Crowley thought vaguely. “Atmosphere.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed out deeply, from the bones, as one would when arriving home after a long day of work. Quietly, he hummed along to the melody.

Similar to his prized Bentley, Crowley’s home didn’t take to anything other than the brilliant rock masterpieces of the 1980’s for long. Behind his back Crowley flicked a finger, and an exception was made.

Crowley watched the angel’s body start to sway subtly with the music. Something inside him couldn't help but move when music was in the air. Crowley had never seen him dance. He knew Aziraphale loved to, but he had no idea if the angel was actually good at it or not. God knows, Crowley wasn't exactly good at it either, but that didn't stop him. And he may not do it anymore, but it had been fun.

It felt like the longer they stood still, the more Crowley felt his blood vibrating under his skin with restlessness. By nature Crowley didn’t do standing still very well. He had always been expected to act, to think and move at all times. To serve a purpose.

The angel’s hands were folded behind the small of his back. Crowley, by some impulse, had made his way closer. Perhaps it began as a way to satisfy his need to move, but then another whim took him over.

Crowley pulled gently at Aziraphale’s arm to untangle his folded hands.

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and turned their attention up questioningly. Whatever Crowley had planned to do or say completely fell away. Music filled his head. Crowley realized, now, that he had all the time in the world. And if they did have all the time in the world, in theory, there was nothing to be afraid of.

Crowley fit their hands together and put his other hand tentatively on Aziraphale's side.

Crowley took a step. And another. And another. The angel followed, perplexed at first, because they weren’t going anywhere, but once Crowley got a momentum going, Aziraphale's eyes widened in disbelief. A rosy tint swept across his face.

Crowley was a decent partner, apart from the occasional step on the toe, and he was thinking so hard he was physically incapable of smiling. Unfathomably endearing in the angel’s eyes. It was all Aziraphale could do to hold back the well gathering there.

"Tch…" Crowley felt the tip of his shoe catch on the angel's.

If it hurt, Aziraphale didn't mind. He only chuckled and paused in their slow movements to adjust Crowley's arms.

“Here. I’ll lead.”

Somewhere along the line, they managed to transition into a waltz. The music carried them, past priceless paintings and familiar sculptures. Aziraphale's eyes brightened with every turn. Where they were usually fraught with worry and indecision, now there was a spark Crowley had rarely seen.

Despite himself, Crowley couldn't shake the stiffness in his shoulders. His fingers loosened and tightened between Aziraphale's with uncertainty, but damned if he wouldn't go through with what he had put into motion.

It happened like this, as most things do. Slowly. Without fanfare.

The music slowed. Or maybe time stood still.

Aziraphale slowed, pulling Crowley back into the position they’d started.

The next time Aziraphale looked up, it was with a glassiness in his eyes, like the untouched surface of a font.

Carefully, Aziraphale untangled his hand from Crowley’s, reached, and slipped Crowley's glasses away to fold them into his coat pocket. He looked deep into the gold of his eyes, as if an answer to a burning question might be written there. Crowley’s throat tightened. He’d never felt so exposed and raw. Not since the fall. Then, when he was singled out by God and tossed down in fire for getting too close.

Icarus.

Yet here was the sun, right in front of him.

Aziraphale was... close. _Very_ close. Somewhere along the way their foreheads found a place to rest against each other. The angel’s breath brushed his lips. Aziraphale tipped his head. The rest followed all at once.

It stunned Crowley to the core so greatly that he stood paralyzed until the stupor was broken by a hand cupped at his cheek, thumb rubbing so tenderly it ached. It was only when he felt Aziraphale tense with second thought, prepared to pull away, that he realized he hadn’t reacted.

Crowley dove in, threading fingers into curls of silver hair, hugging him so closely around the waist that they might never pull apart again. He drowned the angel in gentle, long-winded kisses that were nothing short of adoring and _long overdue_.

Aziraphale made a sound Crowley had never heard before, a cozy place between contentment and cloud nine.

Crowley hummed back, heart knocking wildly at the idea he could be the cause of it. The angel didn’t answer, only pressed the tips of his fingers into Crowley’s nape.

Aziraphale always carried a scent of old paper and the charming gardens of Soho. Crowley never realized how much comfort it brought him until he was buried in it.

Aziraphale’s softness and tender touches were like basking in the creation of sunlight. How it felt to revel in the making of the stars and planets. Right and alive and part of something bigger than he could begin to imagine.

That was Aziraphale. Warm and beautiful. Boundless in his love and mirth. Greater than anything else in his life and worth offering him every moment of it.

It had to end, as everything does. Woolly-headed, Aziraphale blinked away the star-touched look in his eyes. They both took a moment.

“Oh…” the angel breathed. “Don’t… Don’t know what came over me…” He pulled back a hand from Crowley’s nape and touched the bow at his neck, but it needed no straightening.

Crowley’s head was still cottony. Six thousand years. _Six thousand years_. He reveled over and over. It was all he could think.

“...No idea?” Crowley tilted his head in playful accusation. “Not a damn clue?”

Aziraphale chuckled awkwardly. It was hard for both of them to meet the other’s eyes. Crowley had yet to let go of his waist and they were still _very_ close.

“I might have an idea,” he admitted.

The music continued softly in the background, though neither of them seemed to notice. They stood there for some time, staring. Wanting to talk, though no words were very forthcoming at the moment.

“Stay the night?”

There had always been room for him. Crowley made sure of it, with every home he settled in. A nook perfect for dim lighting and books and a kettle for tea. Somewhere that was, secretly, big enough for two. All that was missing was a presence.

“I would love that.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the full effect of the last scene, you may want to listen to Chopin's Nocturne op.9 No.2. Thank you again. <3


End file.
